


everything just stops

by witching



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bathtubs, Crying, Drunken Confessions, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Resolved Romantic Tension, Stripping, Tenderness, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 12:47:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19296064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching
Summary: i'm spilling wine in the bathtubyou kiss my face and we're both drunkeveryone thinks that they know usbut they know nothing aboutall of this silence and patiencepining and anticipationmy hands are shaking from holding back from you// taylor swift, "dress"





	everything just stops

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mercuryhatter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercuryhatter/gifts).



> sometimes you're yelling about taylor swift lyrics with a friend and that friend proposes a fic based around the concept of a specific lyric and then says "it just feels like it should be a Peej Fic" and so you have no choice but to write that shit, right?

"I want a bath," Crowley declared, apropos of nothing. It was late at night, and he was sprawled across the sofa in the back room of Aziraphale’s bookshop, the angel seated across from him in his old armchair, as usual. They had consumed six bottles of wine between the two of them, and Crowley was responsible for four and a half of them. He tried to stand up and flopped backward unceremoniously, his wobbly legs refusing to hold him up for more than a few seconds at a time. "Have you got a bathtub, angel?"

Aziraphale regarded him with a mixture of fondness and amusement. "I can get one," he mumbled, slumping down in his chair, "if you want." The angel was uncharacteristically quiet and agreeable on this particular evening, possibly due to the fact that Crowley had thus far failed to irritate him too much.

Crowley shook his head slowly, understanding that when the angel said  _ get one, _ he meant manifest one into reality via miracle. "Nuh, I'll do it. S'good demon work. Selfish and henodis – hedonisss – fun, you know." He looked up at the ceiling, as if he could see the layout of Aziraphale's apartment through the floor, which he could. "Where d'you want it?"

"It's your bath, dear boy," Aziraphale said. "Put it wherever you want. Heaven knows I'll never use it."

"Don't knock it till you've tried it," Crowley said, then furrowed his brow. "Don't you have a bathroom?"

Aziraphale snorted and shook his head. "Why would I need one?"

“You know,” Crowley said, trying to think of why Aziraphale might need a bathroom, other than for Crowley’s own sake. “For appearances,” he blurted out, as it was the first answer that occurred to him.

Wrinkling his nose, the angel took a long swig of wine and adjusted his position slightly. “Humans don’t go up there,” he said matter-of-factly, gesturing to the ceiling, “and they never will.” 

Crowley processed this, then gave a satisfied nod, not cognizant enough to analyze why he felt such relief upon learning that Aziraphale did not have human visitors in his apartment. “You think my place is a human party spot?” He giggled quietly to himself, shaking his head. 

Aziraphale looked at Crowley over the rims of his glasses, raising an eyebrow. "Why do  _ you _ have a bathroom, then? Not for appearances?"

"I like bathrooms," the demon replied, and then paused for a moment before correcting himself: "I like baths."

"You could have a bath in any room," Aziraphale pointed out.

Crowley laughed quietly. "There's already a room allocated for the purpossse, angel."

"Well, I just don't see the need."

“What about one down here? For customers?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale replied, rolling his eyes. “Not bad enough they want to buy my books, let’s make them feel right at home! Invite them in for a spot of tea!”

“Of course, my bad,” slurred the demon, a fond smile settling on his face for only a moment before it was suddenly replaced with a deep frown. “What was I going to do?”

“Bath,” Aziraphale reminded him.

"Right," Crowley said distantly. He stood with slow, clumsy movements, fumbling over his long limbs, and took a long look around the room. Then, with a blink of his eyes, the sofa and coffee table disappeared, replaced by a large marble tub, already filled with hot water despite having no faucets or pipes attached. 

Aziraphale barely had time to register the change before Crowley peeled off his jacket and abandoned it on the floor. He then moved to unbutton his shirt, his fingers slipping a few times before he could get a hold of the first button, toeing off his shoes in a feat of coordination frankly stunning for his level of intoxication. It wasn’t until Crowley had taken his socks off and unzipped his jeans that Aziraphale finally caught up with reality.

“What are you doing?” The words came out choked, several pitches higher than usual.

Crowley did not notice Aziraphale’s distress. Gesturing to the tub with both hands, he rolled his eyes irritably. “Taking a bath.”

“Right here? In my back room?”

“Yeah, why not?” the demon shrugged, stepping out of his pants. 

Aziraphale thought distantly that he must have used some magic to aid in that process, because they had been practically painted onto his legs. Then Aziraphale thought, less distantly, that Crowley’s choice of underwear was surprising. Then he blushed fiercely and averted his gaze as Crowley stripped those off, as well. 

It took the angel a long moment to remember how to speak. “My dear boy,” he stammered, still conspicuously looking anywhere but at Crowley, “it’s a bit – indecent, no?”

“The sexualization of nudity is a modern invention,” Crowley deadpanned. It was a phrase so well-worn that his tongue didn’t trip over the sibilants, even when drunk. “We used to go to bathhouses, didn’t we? In Rome? What’s the difference?”

Aziraphale swallowed nervously. The difference, to him, was that he hadn’t had such an overwhelming urge to  _ touch  _ Crowley when they were in Rome. The difference was that the past two thousand years or so had brought him ever closer to the brink of giving in to that impulse. The difference was that he  _ loved  _ Crowley; he had back then, as well, but now he knew it, now he could admit it to himself, at least. He did not plan on admitting it to Crowley, not ever.

Instead, what he said was, “Times change, don’t they?”

Crowley lowered himself into the tub, letting out a hiss of pleasure that bordered on obscene, in Aziraphale’s opinion. Aziraphale ventured a peek in his direction, just to check if things had been hidden, if it would be safe to look at him again. The demon sat with his back to Aziraphale, his head tilted back, resting on the edge of the tub, his eyes closed, his expression the picture of bliss, and the angle of Aziraphale’s line of sight meant that he couldn’t see anything he shouldn’t see. 

Once Crowley had fully settled in the bath, he took a deep inhale before responding. “Times do change,” he said matter-of-factly, “but we don’t always have to change with them. Sanum per aqua, angel.” He cracked one eye open and turned his head slightly, eyeing the end table of the sofa. “Hand me the Chateau Margaux, would you?”

Aziraphale handed Crowley the bottle without question, uncorking it for him with the help of a small miracle. “I think they generally discourage mixing alcohol and hot water, nowadays,” he muttered.

“Well, you know me,” Crowley said, shooting the angel a lopsided grin. “Never one to follow rules.” He proved his point by taking several long gulps of the wine before trying to set it down with an exaggerated sigh of satisfaction. Unfortunately, he had forgotten that there wasn’t a nearby flat surface to hold the bottle, and attempted to place it on the edge of the tub; it lost its balance immediately, and he caught it only after a healthy splash of wine had spilled into the water.

Aziraphale laughed softly as he watched the ordeal. “I think you may be too drunk to drink,” he said with a wry smile that Crowley didn’t see.

“Don’t make fun of me,” Crowley replied, sounding as if he might cry. “That was good wine. That was  _ expensive  _ wine.”

“We’ve got plenty of wine,” Aziraphale reassured him, “and plenty of money, at that.”

Crowley heaved a sigh, high-pitched and melodramatic, the type of sigh engineered to garner attention and pity. “I know,” he mumbled wretchedly. Twisting his head around to look at Aziraphale at a rather uncomfortable angle, he frowned deeply. “Angel, could you come over here? Make talking easier.”

Aziraphale could have asked why. He could have pointed out that Crowley could just as easily turn around. He could have made a stammering excuse about Crowley’s nakedness and decency and whatever else he found pouring out of his mouth. Instead, he rose smoothly from his chair and walked the two steps to kneel next to the tub, his gaze determinedly fixed on Crowley’s face.

Crowley pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, and smiled at Aziraphale, murmuring a soft “Hello.”

“Hello,” the angel answered, unable to resist a soft smile in return. “Enjoying your bath?”

“Oh, yesss,” Crowley said, “it’s delightful. You should try it.”

Aziraphale cocked his head to the side, perplexed. “I’ve taken baths, Crowley.”

“No, I meant.” Crowley swallowed audibly, his eyes flitting between Aziraphale and the tub and the walls and the ceiling. “I meant you should try  _ this  _ bath.”

Aziraphale didn’t respond, simply sat there with his hands clutching the edge of the tub, brow furrowed, a small, confused frown sitting on his lips. Seeing the angel’s reaction, Crowley turned away, his face reddening even further than it already had, mumbling something that was half apology, half backtracking. 

He was interrupted by Aziraphale’s hand on his shoulder, a calming touch. “No need for that, my dear,” the angel murmured. “I was just surprised that you would want to share your selfish, hedonistic pleasure with me.” 

Crowley sniffed, too drunk or too embarrassed to hear the teasing in Aziraphale’s tone. “Just thought you might like it, is all,” he said, sounding hurt, turning his whole body away from the angel, agitating the water enough to send a small wave over the edge of the tub. “S’big enough for two,” he continued quietly, “and warm.”

Aziraphale saw and felt the water hit his chest, whispered an “Oh, dear” soft enough that Crowley didn’t hear it, and shook his head in exasperation as he removed his tie and jacket. Reaching for the nearest bottle of wine, he took a drink before beginning to unbutton his shirt. The process was slow-going, as Aziraphale was both drunk and hesitant to undress, but Crowley said nothing for a surprising length of time, unaware that he had inadvertently wet the angel, facing the other way and waiting for a response.

When Crowley did speak again, it was fueled by insecurity rather than impatience. “Angel?” His voice was small, as if he were afraid of being heard. “M’sorry, I didn’t mean – I’m just being ssstupid.”

Aziraphale looked up, suddenly realizing how long he’d been silent. “No, no,” he said hurriedly, “that's not it. Just got a bit splashed. It's okay."

"Oh, no," Crowley whined, turning back around fast enough to displace even more water. He had a whole list of apologies at the ready, but they all dissolved like sugar on his tongue as soon as his eyes landed on Aziraphale's bare chest. "Wh'happened to your shirt?"

Aziraphale shrugged, taking another heavy sip of wine. “Took it off,” he said, sounding almost sheepish. “Was wet.”

“What about  _ decency, _ angel?” Crowley gave Aziraphale a conspicuous and pointed once-over. “Does that only apply to demons?”

“No,” replied the angel, blushing slightly. “But – it was wet,” he repeated lamely.

Crowley gave a slow nod, trying to hide the wry smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. “D’you want me to miracle it dry? Or get you a new one?” It was a settled routine for them by now that Crowley would do these little miracles for Aziraphale, who refused to do such things for himself, and likewise refused to ask for help. 

“No, it’s…” Aziraphale leaned forward a bit, resting his chin on his arms where they sat on the edge of the tub. “I’m fine, just like this.”

"If you're trying to get naked, you can just do it," Crowley teased, looking away from the intensity and closeness of Aziraphale’s gaze. "S'what I did. Just strip and get on in, you don't gotta be so…  _ you _ about it."

Aziraphale's face darkened with a fierce blush as he stammered for a few seconds before gathering his wits. "I think I have to be  _ me _ about everything," he stated primly. "It comes with the territory of, well, being me."

Looking up to give him a cocky grin, Crowley found himself momentarily at a loss for air, enchanted by the way the low light fell on the contours of the angel’s face. Six thousand years and Crowley had gotten pretty good at pretending he wasn’t in love with Aziraphale, but every once in a while it would hit him like a bag of bricks, and he could swear he was in Eden again, freshly, fully swept away by how  _ gorgeous  _ Aziraphale was. An unconventional beauty, perhaps, and one that you didn’t notice until you noticed it, but Crowley had noticed it on first sight, and he had never met a sight to surpass it.

A soft noise pulled Crowley from his reverie, and it took him a moment to realize that it was the sound of Aziraphale clearing his throat. His vision coming back into focus, he was hit by the fact of how close their faces were, Aziraphale resting his head on the side of the tub right next to where Crowley sat hugging his knees.

“I like that you’re you,” Crowley murmured, staring openly into Aziraphale’s eyes. “I mean, I like your sssilly Aziraphale things, yeah?”

“My –” Aziraphale blinked hard, feeling exposed. “My what?”

“Your…” Crowley sighed, struggling through the cloud of intoxication in his mind to put words to his feelings. “Your little… you know, things. Like when you wanna do something but you won’t just do it, you have to pretend you don’t wanna do it, just to make me convince you.”

Looking almost offended, Aziraphale scoffed. “I don’t do that.”

“You do,” Crowley insisted without rancor, “but I like it. And I like when you take the first bite of a meal and you close your eyes and you just live in that mouthful for a whole lifetime, it feels like.”

Blushing again, the angel opened his mouth to respond, but Crowley cut him off before he could begin. “And I like when you get all smug and tell me I’m a nice person,” he said, smiling gently. “And I love how much you care about your books, love seeing how good you keep them, you know.”

“My dear, you’re drunk.”

“And I really love when you call me your  _ dear.” _

“Crowley –”

“And I know you say that to everyone, but that’s okay, angel, I still love it. Love hearing you say it like, like it’s my name, or like it’s an insult, or any way at all.”

_ “Crowley.” _ The stern, intense tone of Aziraphale’s voice finally forced the demon to stop talking, looking once again as if he’d been woken in the middle of a dream. Aziraphale stared at him for several long moments, puzzled, before he spoke in a ragged voice. “Why are you saying all this?”

Crowley shrugged. “Don’t tell you enough,” he said calmly. “Not supposed to, really, not good for a demon, but it’s gotta be said. Gotta remind you.”

Aziraphale puzzled over this for a minute. “Should I be reminding you, as well?”

“Oh, no,” Crowley replied hastily, and then he was silent for a moment, thinking. “Reminding me of what, exactly?”

“Well, you know,” the angel said. “Reminding you that I – that I like you. You’re my best friend. I don’t say it enough, either.”

Deflating, Crowley let out a whine from the back of his throat. “No, I’m – yeah, I know, but…” He closed his eyes, taking a deep inhale and holding it for a length of time before letting it out slowly. “I don’t know, angel, it’s different.”

Aziraphale wrinkled his brow, frowning slightly. “What’s different? How?”

“I think – I mean, I hope that you  _ know  _ that I like you,” Crowley answered, his voice wavering and watery. “I just want to remind you that I love you.” Taking advantage of the angel’s moment of shock, Crowley pressed on: “Of course you’re my best friend. Of  _ courssse  _ you are. But I don’t love you like a best friend. I love you deep, angel.”

“You’re really quite drunk, my dear boy,” Aziraphale deflected.

“No,” said the demon, and then, “well, yes, I am, but I mean it.”

“Are you –” the angel’s voice was hoarse, and he paused to clear his throat, “are you playing some sort of game right now?”

Crowley’s face crumpled, his lips quivering, his eyebrows knit, and he moved to cup Aziraphale’s cheek. His hand was wet, leaving shimmering streaks of water on the angel’s skin where his fingers caressed his face, but neither seemed to notice or mind. Aziraphale closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, savoring it while he could, listening closely for the demon’s response.

“I am not,” Crowley whispered fervently, his face frighteningly close to Aziraphale’s. “Six thousand yearsss, angel. You’re a part of me, and I jussst – just wanted you to know, is all.”

Without warning, Aziraphale reached with both hands to pull Crowley in closer, forcing him to drop his own hand from the angel’s face. Aziraphale held him gently, pressing a single chaste kiss to the demon’s forehead, his lips lingering as his thumbs slid tenderly along his cheekbones, his fingers wrapped up in dark, dripping hair. 

When Crowley responded not by recoiling, as Aziraphale had expected, but by melting against his skin and sighing contentedly, the angel placed another kiss on one cheek, then the other. He moved to kiss Crowley’s eyelids, his jawline, his chin, the corners of his mouth, all the time cradling Crowley’s head in his hands, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Crowley to rebuff his affection.

Crowley, ever one to defy expectations, continued to allow the angel to kiss his face to his heart’s content. It was only when he heard Crowley sniff and let out a pitiful whimper that he pulled back, looking at the demon with concern.

“Crowley, what’s wrong?” Aziraphale swiped a thumb softly under Crowley’s eye, catching a tear rolling down his face, and watched as Crowley sniffed again, casting his eyes downward. “I’m sorry,” he added, sounding wretched.

Snapping his head up, Crowley looked more alert than he had since they had started drinking. “No, no, no sorry,” he said in a tone as heated as the gaze he fixed on Aziraphale’s face. 

“I made you cry,” Aziraphale said blankly, caught halfway between the guilt he was feeling and the exasperation of having to point out the obvious, yet again.

It seemed to Crowley that it would not be a good idea to tell Aziraphale that he cried over him relatively frequently, that that would not help with the way the angel was feeling, so he kept it to himself. Instead, he chose to rush forward, before he could talk himself out of it, and kiss Aziraphale’s lips, firmly and quickly. When he pulled back, the look on the angel’s face was unfathomable.

Aziraphale was having trouble parsing his thoughts himself, and all he could think to say was, “How can you still be so attractive, even when you’re crying?”

Reaching up to wipe his eyes, Crowley gave a small, watery chuckle. “Lotsss of practice,” he murmured.

“Right,” Aziraphale replied. “Can you tell me  _ why  _ you’re crying?”

Crowley laughed again, sinking down into the bathwater an inch or two, laying his head back against the edge of the tub. “M’drunk, angel, I dunno,” he said, his eyes fluttering closed. “You sssuddenly decide to show a guy more affection than he’s seen in centuries, things are bound to happen.” The words left his mouth like they didn’t mean anything, without much feeling, and then fell to the ground between them like lead weights.

“Sober up,” Aziraphale said, his voice soft, not angry, but commanding. “Sober up and get dressed and bring my furniture back, please.”

After taking a moment to study the angel’s face, Crowley decided it was best to listen to him. He vanished the bathtub, brought back the sofa and the coffee table, dried himself off with a thought, and began dressing, watching Aziraphale all the while. The angel looked away very briefly while Crowley pulled on his underpants, and then met his gaze again, their eyes gravitating toward each other for several long, silent minutes. In the process, Crowley had also cleaned and dried Aziraphale’s shirt, and he pulled it on and buttoned it just as Crowley was doing the same with his own shirt. 

Glancing at his jeans on the floor, Crowley made a small noise of disgust, then manifested another pair of pants – they looked to Aziraphale to be sweatpants, the kind of loungewear that Crowley tended to avoid. He didn’t think it was a particularly fruitful line of thought or conversation, but he couldn’t stand the silence while Crowley got dressed, so he asked.

“Why do you wear those?” He nodded toward the jeans in a pile on the floor. “If they’re so tight you can’t get them on or off?”

Crowley gave him a look full of heat. “Maybe I’m hoping someone will notice,” he murmured. “Maybe I’m hoping someone will like it.” Noting the flush in Aziraphale’s cheeks, he continued, “Maybe I’m hoping someone will  _ help  _ me take them off.”

Aziraphale said nothing, just sat back in his chair and regretted opening his mouth, while Crowley tied the drawstring of his joggers at a snail’s pace and flopped back on the couch. It was only then, once he had fully dressed and gotten into a comfortable position, that the demon finally released the alcohol from his bloodstream, turning to look at Aziraphale, expectant and nervous.

“Okay, so,” said the angel, who had also taken the time to sober up, “what is going on here?”

Crowley pressed his lips together and blinked several times. “Not sure,” he answered tentatively. “Just wanted some wine and a nice bath, got a bit carried away.”

“I’ll say,” Aziraphale deadpanned, his tone belying the swirl of anxiety in his gut. “Is this the kind of carried away we should talk about, or the kind of carried away you would rather forget?”

In six thousand years, the two had found themselves in similar situations to their current one a handful of times: it would have been impossible for both to keep their feelings entirely under wraps for so long, and things tended to slip out. Each time it happened, however, they chose to either ignore it and move on as if it hadn’t happened, or talk it through until they could justify it to themselves, explain why it didn’t mean anything, didn’t change anything. They had experience, essentially, in maintaining the status quo of their relationship, and Aziraphale was more than prepared to handle this circumstance the way they had handled it in the past.

Crowley chewed over the problem in his head for a while before looking up at Aziraphale with a fierce determination in his eyes. “I want to talk about it,” he said firmly, “but I’m not making excuses.”

Aziraphale cocked his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I want to talk about everything that I said,” Crowley replied, “because I meant it. I meant every word of it, and I’m telling you this now, while I’m sober and my mind is clear. I meant all of it.”

“Oh.”

“And if you didn’t, that’s fine,” he continued. “If you want to say it was only because you were drunk, or because I started it, or whatever, that’s fine, go ahead and say it. I won’t push it. But I’m not going to pretend that I regret it.”

“I…” Aziraphale cleared his throat, swallowed hard, fidgeted with his hands in his lap. “I need you to say it.”

“What?”

“You keep talking about it,” Aziraphale said, “but I need you to actually say it again. Please.”

Chewing on his lower lip, Crowley considered this. “And then what?” There was a beat of silence as the angel gave him a bewildered look, then Crowley moved to explain. “I mean, if I say it. Out loud, sober, to your face. Then what?”

“Then I’ll know it’s real,” Aziraphale whispered, his voice breaking. 

“It’s real, angel,” Crowley assured him. “I do love you, more than anything. Love you so much it drives me crazy, sometimes. Love everything about you, just like I said. You’re a part of me.”

Sinking back into his chair just slightly, holding his limbs just a bit too tensely, clenching his jaw just a bit too tightly, Aziraphale nodded his head. “I see,” he muttered, half to himself, and then louder: “Can I – will you come here?”

Crowley nodded back, standing from the couch and striding across the seemingly infinite space between them, coming to a stop directly in front of the angel, who beckoned for him to lean down, leveling their faces with each other. Aziraphale searched the depths of Crowley’s eyes for something, he didn’t know what, nor was he sure whether or not he had found it when he decided to grab Crowley by the front of his shirt and pull him into another kiss. 

It was different this time – passionate, heated, deep, as opposed to the tender pecks he had been giving earlier. He slipped his tongue into Crowley’s mouth, sliding it against the demon’s own tongue, his sharp teeth, and Crowley had to grip the armrests of the chair to keep his legs from collapsing under him. After a time, Aziraphale’s hands wandered, his warm, plump fingers pressing in against Crowley’s ribs, his waist, establishing a strong hold on his hips. He pulled again, yanked the demon closer by those slender hips, causing Crowley to fall forward into his lap, all without breaking the kiss.

Relishing the fact of no longer having to maintain his own balance, Crowley melted into him, molding himself to Aziraphale’s body, wrapping his arms around the angel’s neck and holding onto him like a liferaft. Aziraphale responded in kind, held him tight, and tugged at the demon’s lower lip with his teeth, ever so gently, eliciting a frankly embarrassing sound from Crowley that could equally have been either a whimper or a moan.

Breathing heavily, Aziraphale pushed Crowley away by a fraction of an inch, just enough that he could talk to Crowley, could see his face. What he saw was the demon’s golden eyes, wide and swimming with tears once again, and a few tear tracks down his cheeks like evidence at the scene of a crime. 

“You’re crying again,” he pointed out rather bluntly, unsure what to say. He watched as Crowley nodded his head and lifted a hand to wipe the tears from his eyes, but the demon said nothing, so Aziraphale stated, just as plainly: “I love you.”

Crowley let out a choked little sob at that, and then he collapsed, his body slumping forward and his forehead coming to rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder, a few stray tears dropping on the angel’s shirt. Aziraphale, at a loss for what to do, ran a flat, warm palm up and down Crowley’s back, in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. They stayed that way for several minutes, the only sounds coming from Crowley’s ragged breaths, interspersed with sniffles and hiccups. When he sat back, looking up at Aziraphale with red and puffy eyes, the angel almost shed a tear himself.

“Are you going to do that every time?” Aziraphale asked, a gentle smile gracing his face as he moved to wipe away the demon’s tears once more. “Just so I can be prepared, you see.”

Crowley turned his head in a futile attempt to hide the blush that rose to his cheeks. “I don’t know,” he said thickly, “I’ve never… before, you know.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes, tilting his head to examine Crowley’s face. “Never what?”

“Never been loved before,” Crowley mumbled, ashamed.

“Oh,” sighed the angel, one breath full of all the tenderness he could muster, trying his best to keep the pity from coloring his tone as he pulled Crowley in to shower his face with soft kisses again. “Oh, my dear,” he whispered reverently, “you’ve never been anything  _ but.” _

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [can I be close to you?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19849057) by [enby-crowley (probablypadders)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/probablypadders/pseuds/enby-crowley)




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